A Job Well Done
by BenAddict Holmes
Summary: The five times that Molly Hooper saved Sherlock Holmes and the one time that he saved her. Rated to be on the safe side. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N : This one is for Elixir BB, who was kind enough to dedicate her story 'The birth and death of the day' to me. Thank you so much and I hope you like this weird story that I managed to put together! The idea has been in the recesses of my brain for a long time and I have MorbidByDefault to thank for some really brilliant ideas :) I love you both so much! **

**It is a bit different from the usual stuff and I really hope I do justice to Sherlock's POV! It really scares me to write stuff from his POV because I'm absolutely nowhere as intelligent as him.**

**So here goes! **

**Disclaimer : Not mine. One more thing, I don't smoke and I think it's a disgusting habit. **

**Listen to : Never Say Never by The Fray or Clocks by ColdPlay.**

* * *

Eyes closed, he leaned against the old lamp post, awaiting yet another sleepless night. It had been three days since he had allowed himself the comfort of a bed but he's too high to even care. Sleep was nothing but another mundane necessity and he was definitely not going to succumb until it became absolutely indispensable. The dealer had left with him the promised items, the only stuff except for nicotine that would enable him to break free of the tedium of academics. He was in his final year at the University and the dismay in the eyes of his professors was evident and expected. To see such a brilliant student drown in the unpleasant world of drug addiction was disheartening for them but he had foreseen it just after a few months at Uni. The syllabus was monotonous and his peers were just dull. An escape into narcotics was inevitable.

A sudden wave of the frigid winter wind swept over him, bringing with it an inexplicable desire for nicotine. After all, it had been more than a month since he had felt the gratifying smoke fill up his lungs and his longing had only increased with everyday.

As he stood outside the dingy pub with the loud music hammering over his eardrums, he saw the exact object that he craved at the moment. Well, his vision was very hazy but he could recognise the orange glow but only faintly see the petite figure holding the cigarette between her lips. She was positively tiny and if her face hadn't betrayed her age, he would have thought that she wasn't even an adult. A black leather miniskirt with metal fastenings, thick black woollen stockings, a bomber's jacket (too large for her, perhaps her brother's) and a neon green top made up her attire and she shivered, before taking in a long drag and blowing little clouds of blue smoke in the air surrounding her.

He stumbled over to her and she jumped, evidently startled at the sight of him appearing so suddenly from the shadows. Or maybe she was just lost in her own world. Either way, he didn't care. What he wanted was right in front of him and he extended his hand, asking in his gentlest voice, 'May I?'.

She hesitated a little before dropping the lit cigarette into his hand and in a fraction of a second it was at his lips. He took a deep drag, revelling in the warmth that spread through his lungs, ignoring the way the girl's eyes swept over him again and again, the confusion in them turning into absolute panic.

The dealer's warning to not combine the drug with either alcohol or tobacco rushed to his mind as suddenly as the bile rushed to his throat and he promptly threw up on the footpath, only to pass out seconds later, but not before hearing the girl's terrified yells.

When his eyes finally opened, he found himself staring at the pristine white walls of what could only be a hospital room. More particularly, a room in a de addiction hospital. Rehab. Not again!

With a groan, he sat up, only to see his older brother glaring at him with an expression that clearly said _What on earth were you thinking?_

After explaining the rules for the next few months ( they were stricter this time because this time he had almost killed himself) Mycroft stood up to leave.

'I hope you realise the gravity of the situation. I'm not going to let you relapse this time. I won't lose my brother for the sole reason that the humdrum of your banal life as a university student is too much for you to bear. You have one more year left but try to stay alive at least for your family if not for yourself. Thank your stars that the girl found you and immediately called for an ambulance. I'll see you when you're ready to be discharged. Good Bye then' he said before shutting the door quietly.

He fell asleep soon after and his last thought was about the petite girl, wondering what she had done after the ambulance had taken his responsibility off her shoulders.

* * *

The next time he saw her was under far better circumstances than that fateful night. He was finally clean and had resolved never to give in to the temptation again. She was the new pathologist at St. Bart's and one glance at her told him all he needed and didn't need to know, including the fact that she had recognised him at once. He gave no indication of the fact that he had recognised her too, brushing her away, thinking that she was nothing but a person necessary to please in order to have his experiments proceed unhindered and his cases solved without a hitch. A little smile here, a fleeting compliment there and she was in his pocket. All this, until Jim Moriarty came along.

At a time when all seemed lost, help came to him from an unlikely source. His only friends being targeted by the vile criminal mastermind had left him with no one to confide his plan to. Of course, he couldn't work alone and desperately needed help but asking his brother was out of the question, even when it was a matter of life and death. Sibling rivalry and childhood animosity aside, this was the very brother who had traded him to the enemy, all for a computer code. Ergo, Mycroft was not to be trusted.

Three simple words was all it took to bring him to his senses.

_I don't count._

At that moment he truly realised that he wasn't alone, that he had never been alone. She had always been there right next to him, albeit in the shadows. He was reluctant to admit it to himself but he knew that she was really mistaken. He had owed her his life since his last stint at rehab. He had never forgotten that. Thankfully, Moriarty had assumed otherwise and the devil's mistake had turned out to be his trump card.

He lay down on her couch that night, ready for a full night's sleep because things had gone exactly according to the plan. It hurt to see John's broken condition, Mrs. Hudson's endless tears and Greg's inner turmoil carefully shielded by the composed exterior but it had been necessary.

Sleep evaded him for an hour before finally enveloping him in its gentle arms but till then, his thoughts revolved only around the woman sleeping in the bedroom and how she had saved his life a second time.

* * *

The tracking down of the extensive criminal network took a long time but one loose end brought him back to London. Sebastian Moran, the unofficial successor to the criminal empire was proving extremely difficult to apprehend since he still led the life of an honourable soldier, deceiving the unsuspecting public openly, who had not the faintest idea of his illicit activities.

The chance to catch him red-handed finally arrived with the celebrated solicitor Ronald Adair being murdered in his own room. One look at the crime scene and he had known instantly that it was Moran's work. The room had been locked from inside and yet the victim had been shot in the forehead.

Moran had been working as a sniper for more than fifteen years now and soft revolver bullets were his speciality that he, in all his foolhardiness, had allowed to become his signature. John was still unaware of his best friend still being alive but Moran knew very well whom he was dealing with. The fact that his antagonist had managed to escape death when his own master (one whose intelligence he held in the highest regard ) had not managed to, itself spoke volumes of the man's genius. Single handedly, he had annihilated the whole network that had taken his master ages to build.

The only solution that presented itself to Moran was to get rid of the detective before he took away his freedom as well. If the rumours were to be believed, then the detective was back in London and Moran needed to act and that too, fast.

Not having John accompany him on this case was something he really lamented but at the moment the best substitute was standing next to him quietly as they waited for Moran to strike. Mrs. Hudson being out of town had resulted in avoiding a confrontation that was imprudent at such a crucial time. John didn't live at Baker Street any more and hence the wax bust was sitting comfortably and undisturbed, in his own armchair. It was perfect enough to deceive a man with an average intellect and he expected it to deceive Moran too.

What he didn't expect was Moran using the same flat as them to take aim and shoot what he thought was the detective's head. The sound of the shot was subdued by a long silencer attached to his rifle and Moran jumped a foot in surprise as the said detective sprang on him like a tiger as soon as the shot was fired.

An intense scuffle followed by the end of which he found his throat being squeezed hard by Moran. The man was much more strongly built than him and he knew that the game was up when he started seeing stars and everything started going black... until yet another silent shot rang through the room.

When his vision finally cleared, he saw his companion clutching Moran's rifle and the man himself lying in a pool of blood, unconscious but alive. It was a shoulder wound and the bleeding itself would have been enough to kill him.

When the police arrived at the scene, Greg nearly tackled him to the floor as he fiercely embraced him as he thanked every God aloud for keeping him alive.

Of course, the real reason why he was still alive was standing shyly in a corner but he wasn't going to reveal that to anyone as of now.

Moran was taken to the hospital and later would be taken to prison.

His work was finally complete.

This would be the last night he would spend at her home because tomorrow, he would be back at 221B with John at his side. He was exhilarated at the thought but he also knew how it would make her feel.

The barely audible sobs emanating from her room were evidence of that.

**A/n : This was going to be a one shot but then it would have been too long. So it's a two shot instead :)**

**Like it? Hate it?**

**If convenient, let me know.**

**If inconvenient, let me know all the same.**

**Lots of Love**

**Aditi xoxoxo**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n : I'm so overwhelmed at the response this has got! I love you all so much! Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, adding this to your alerts and favourites. A special thank you to Elixir BB, simply for being awesome.**

**In the previous chapter, the ways in which Molly saved Sherlock were very literal, but it's not so in this chapter. Read on to know more! **

**Disclaimer : Not mine.**

**Listen to : Unlike Me by Charlie Winston ( I love this guy. He's too good) or Fix You by ColdPlay.**

It was pouring incessantly when he awoke the next morning. The lack of any sound from the bedroom told him that she was still asleep. It was tempting to leave the flat right now, and avoid the awkward good bye that he was definitely not looking forward to, but whatever few manners he possessed informed him that it would probably be the most tactless thing to do. After everything that she had done for him, he owed her a thank you and a proper good bye at the very least.

(He also owed her his life, not once but three times over, but he tried not to think of that. Being in someone's debt was something that he did not like a single bit).

So he tried to occupy himself with the newspapers. Discarding them on finding nothing of interest, he switched on the coffee maker to make a cup of coffee. A feeling of dread was settling over him with every sip he took. He had never been good with people and he had a feeling that if he said anything at all, he might end up making the situation worse than it was, especially if there were tears involved.

A few minutes later, she stumbled out of her room, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She was headed towards the bathroom but did a double take when she saw him there.

'You're still here?' she said incredulously.

'Always the tone of surprise' he muttered, disgruntled that she would think so little of him as to leave without thanking her. However, his previous interactions with her should have told him not to expect otherwise. Before he could say anything, she just shrugged and stepped into the bathroom, pulling out her toothbrush and toothpaste from the wall unit.

He set down his now empty mug and at that precise moment, the doorbell rang.

Her muffled shout, asking him to get the door came soon after and a glance through the peep hole revealed the visitor to be a young delivery boy, drenched to the skin.

He jerked open the door and the boy held up a small parcel and a clipboard.

'Delivery for Doctor Hooper, sir. You need to sign here' he managed to speak out through his chattering teeth and shoved to clipboard towards him. The delivery was from a medical supplier. But then, why was the parcel delivered to her residence? Unless she had ordered it by herself instead of getting them ordered through the Bart's supplier.

As soon as the boy was gone, he tore open the thick brown paper wrapping. A box fell into his hands and it's size confirmed his supposition regarding its contents. It probably contained a new set of surgical instruments.

He was about to open the box when her shriek rang out through her tiny apartment.

'Don't open that!'

He started at her in surprise. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was agape with horror. Her toothbrush lay forgotten in her hand and she looked shell shocked, about to hyperventilate any moment. Sure enough, her breathing became shallow and rapid and she sank into the nearest armchair.

As for him, he had absolutely no clue as to what had provoked such a reaction from her. Surely the box only contained a scalpel, a pair of scissors and a pair of plain and a tooth forceps?

When her breathing had come back to normal, she muttered a few incorrigible words but the words 'sting' and 'poison' told him all he needed to know.

Holding up the box against the tube light, he could faintly make out the outline of a sharp spring that would prick the handler's fingers as soon as the box was opened. A booby trap.

'The spring was visible from where I stood. I had read about this when I was a student. The hapless victim is poisoned before he knows what is happening. One swift prick and the job is done. I'm worried, Sherlock. Why was this sent here? What if there is someone you missed? What if Sebastian Moran still has his men to avenge his imprisonment? What if..?' her voice had reached a pitch so low that he could barely hear her. Her face was drained of the little colour it usually possessed and she was sweating profusely. A light graze over her wrist revealed her pulse to be elevated well above normal. She looked petrified.

'Listen to me. You need not worry. I know exactly who has sent this here. The reason for the action is still uncertain but it was certainly meant for me and not for you. Get rid of the box and leave the rest to me. I'll take care of it' was all he said before storming out of her apartment.

Biting off the hands that fed her was exactly the sort of thing that Irene Adler would do. And poison was a woman's weapon.

* * *

He had been insanely high, he had smoked cartons of cigarettes in a single day and once he had almost died because of a combination of the two. And yet, in the thirty odd years of his life, he had never been drunk.

Somehow, the bitter sweet taste of alcohol never appealed to him as much as it did to others. The gratification given by a single cigarette was much more alluring to him than the most expensive bottle of wine. Nobody had ever seen him with more than a glass of red wine at occasions and hence had no reason to believe that he was anything more than a social drinker.

So when he showed up at her doorstep, one drink shy of being stone drunk, the alarm in her voice was to be expected. Staggering into the flat, he barely made it to the couch before collapsing on it. His barely conscious senses registered being shifted to a more comfortable position by small gentle hands but his mind was still replaying the conversation that had caused him to down drink after drink in the first place.

_You're dead. You died. I saw you jump…_

_Hallucinations. Just what I need. As if the nightmares and limp weren't enough._

_You're not a ghost, you're not a spirit. _

_I wept for you, I slept at your grave. For months I couldn't even bear to be within a mile's radius of Baker Street. All for nothing._

_You're real. But you're not him. The Sherlock that was my best friend would never do this to me. _

_I'm an army doctor, you don't think I can take care of myself?_

_Friends don't do this to each other. _

_Everything can be forgiven Sherlock, but you went too far this time._

_I have my practice, you have your cases. _

_It's time we parted ways._

_Good bye, Sherlock._

The next morning brought with it his first ever hangover. His head felt so heavy that it was difficult to even think of sitting up. As soon as his eyes opened, however, he felt a pair of soft hands roaming over his visage, checking his temperature. A glass of water and some aspirin was already ready for him and he gulped down the water gratefully, the coldness relieving his parched and burning throat.

Just as he thought he was feeling better, his stomach lurched and he ran to the bathroom, throwing up promptly. The bath tub filled with hot water looked extremely inviting and he slid in without a second thought, the warmth of the water appeasing his sore muscles. He emerged out of the bathroom, feeling clean and fresh, convinced that the effects of the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed, had dissipated completely.

But the sight in front of his eyes was enough to convince him that he was mistaken. How else would he explain his brain conjuring up a picture perfect John Watson waiting for him, looking extremely uncomfortable and guilty?

Before he could say a single word, this perfect illusion of John rushed at him and he staggered back as John slammed into him with the force of a small steam roller. Reality struck him with an even greater force and he gasped in shock. It wasn't an illusion.

Somehow, miraculously, John had forgiven him.

He allowed himself to relax into the embrace, oxytocin flooding his brain as he sighed in relief. The only reason he had survived three years of exile, relentlessly bringing down member after member of Moriarty's criminal network was that he had a home and a life with his friends to look forward to.

When his eyes met hers, his breath caught. She was standing in a corner, the silent spectator as always. Her eyes shone with unshed tears and her face was adorned with the brightest smile he had ever seen on her face.

He nodded to her silently, hoping to convey everything that he wanted to, but for once, had no words for.

_You have saved my life so many times that I've lost count. But what you have managed to do today is something I will never be able to repay. _

After a few thankful words that John spoke to Molly, it was time for them to leave. John was outside on the street calling a cab and they were quite alone. His gaze bore into hers and she stared back at him just as intensely, waiting for him to speak.

When he realized that no words would be good enough to express his immense gratitude, he simply ducked down and kissed her softly, muttering a hurried 'Thank you, Molly Hooper' before leaving with John for, well, home.

* * *

Eyes closed, he leaned against the old lamp post, awaiting yet another sleepless night. Usually, he could go days without sleep but this wasn't going to be a night where he was going to stay awake voluntarily. His thoughts were not going to let him get even a wink of sleep. Things were changing too fast and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. At that moment, he would have given anything for a cigarette that would put his apprehensions to rest. The billowing blue smoke could calm him down like nothing else could.

Of course, this time there was no girl in a miniskirt who would bring him the object of his cravings. The said girl was busy downing drink after drink at the bar, as a disheveled Greg Lestrade tried in vain to slow her down.

To a person who knew her only slightly, she would seem like the perfect maid of honour. Everyone was raving about how the wedding had been perfect to the tiniest detail. Her duties had kept her busy, adding finishing touches to the bride's make up, taking care of the band and the caterers, greeting and smiling at the guests, making a toast to the newly married couple, dancing with the groom and his friends, and so on.

His eyes had been drawn towards her throughout the evening and it was obvious how keen she was to avoid his gaze at all costs. The customary dance between the best man and the maid of honour had been nothing short of awkward and she kept her gaze focused on a spot over his shoulder, determined not to look into his aquamarine eyes even once. His gaze would have burned holes into a normal person by now but not her.

The guests had started to trickle out an hour ago and the Hall was almost empty save for a few people. The bride and the groom had already left for the airport. The bartender was winding up too, and gave him a pointed look when he tried to wake her up from her stupor and failed.

Finally she woke up with a gasp, clutching her head. The first thing he did was take off her ridiculously high heels. When it was clear that she could stumble, if not walk, he led her to the taxi stand and took her home.

True, he had not had the chance to visit her even once after he had returned to 221B, but that was more due to the cases that came cascading into his lap than anything. It was never intentional.

However, looking at her morose face as she curled up into an armchair, staring into the dying embers in the grate, he felt remorse burning through him. She was the only constant in his life and he had treated her so shabbily. No wonder she couldn't even bear to look at him.

The warm glow of the fire made her skin look even paler than usual, almost as pale as his own. Her deep purple floor length gown was wrinkled, her hair was loose, spilling over her bare shoulders, her kohl lined eyes were bloodshot and yet, he had never seen her look so beautiful before.

Her eyes were roaming around the apartment and when they finally rested on him, they narrowed and she stood up, swaying a bit at the abruptness of the action.

'You! Why have you come here again? What is wrong now? Is the guilty conscience finally pricking you? Oh wait, that's not possible, because you don't have one!' she slurred, poking him in the chest with every word. A voice at the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like John told him that it would be best if he kept his mouth shut. The alcohol in her system had set her usually reserved self free and her eyes blazed with a fire that he didn't even know existed in the first place.

'Three years, I guard your secret for three years, lie to everyone through my teeth, and I feel myself finally getting over you and what d'you do? You kiss me and leave me hanging, refusing to even acknowledge what you did, let alone give me an explanation. Why d'you do this, Sherlock? Why d'you want to make me hate you?' she choked, tears streaming down her face.

'For the most observant man in the world, you are so blind! For years I have loved you, and you … you don't even know what's staring at you in the face. You just don't care…' she trailed off, shaking her head sadly.

The moment her eyes closed, she swayed dangerously, his hands moved on their own to steady her and she passed out into his arms.

Scooping her into his arms, he carried her to the bedroom and lay her down on the bed, smiling slightly at her unconscious form.

For, it was his turn to do the saving this time.

**A/n : There. It's done!**

**Many thanks to everyone who read this and I hope you enjoyed it! **

**And hugs to MorbidbyDefault for some amazing ideas! I love you!**

**So, review maybe?**

**Lots of Love**

**Aditi xoxoxo**


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